


- 30 -

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Birthday, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> For his thirtieth birthday, Blair decides he needs to make some changes in his life.</p>
<p>Last revised in 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	- 30 -

 

**\- 30 - by Alyjude**

 

Life-altering events.

Blair Sandburg had experienced a hell of a lot of those in his twenty-nine years on this earth -- and he hadn't changed or altered his life after any of them. But now -- oh, yeah, now it was time. The big three-oh loomed on the horizon, only five days away, and it was time to re-evaluate his life. Make radical changes, shake up the pot.

Be _different_ \-- or something.

Okay, so now that he was headed toward change, he needed to figure out what to change. And the best way to do that, was to figure out what absolutely could _not_ change. His life was so huge that the sheer number of items that he had to decide about overwhelmed him to the point that he immediately bounced up, grabbed a pad and a pen and started scribbling.

**1\. His Job**

Nope. He couldn't change that. Jim needed him and besides, he liked being a cop now. And Jim still needed him. The big jerk didn't _know_ that he still needed him, nor did anyone else, but hey, who was the expert here? Right, him, that's who.

Blair knew that a Sentinel needed grounding and that it came in the form of his backup. The fact that said grounding was almost second nature now was probably responsible for why no one knew how much Jim needed Blair. Jim hadn't zoned at home, or when Blair was around, in over a year. Of course, he'd zoned a few times with others, which was how Blair learned that Jim still needed him. Zoning could be dangerous. Duh.

But when Jim zoned around Simon or Megan, it could be really dangerous. If, for some reason, Blair wasn't around and Jim zoned with Simon, well, Simon panicked, pure and simple. Then he started yelling. Loudly. Well, of course he yelled loudly, that's what yelling _is_ , but Simon always upped the volume when zones were involved. As for Megan, well, she simply punched Jim, or elbowed him.

The only person Blair could trust with Jim in a zone was Joel. At least he wasn't abusive with the poor Sentinel. Joel simply rubbed small circles over Jim's back.

What people forgot was what it was like for Jim -- coming out of a zone. When he finally returned to normalcy, or what passed for normal, whether it was minutes or -- hours, it was like waking up after a coma, you know? It wasn't exactly fun for Jim. But let him come to around anyone but Blair -- and it was worse.

If he was with Simon, his ears would be ringing and he'd have a whopper of a headache but wouldn't know why. If it happened with Megan, he was usually bruised and confused and would give Megan weird looks for the rest of the day. If the zone happened around Joel, well, that really upset Jim because when he finally came out of it, he always felt all warm and cuddly and he _really_ didn't understand that at all. Then he'd say, "Sandburg, why is that when I zone with you, it's over, done and no after-effects, but with anyone else --"

Blair would always interrupt at that point and mention oh, so casually, "Hey, Jim, when _was_ the last time you zoned around me?"

That usually shut Jim up.

So yeah. Couldn't change the job.

Next item --

**2\. Where He Lived**

Nope, couldn't change that. See number one above. Okay, while it was true that Jim didn't zone at home, whether Blair was present or not, the fact was that the loft fairly reeked of Sandburg (with or without using the spray). Wherever Jim turned, there was leftover Sandburg. The scents of his tea or coffee or disgusting food, his bath products, his clothes (dirty or clean), his pens, papers, basically -- him. And that was, oddly enough, sufficient to keep Jim grounded. So yeah, Blair understood that changing where he lived was a no-no. Not that he minded. He didn't. He liked his little room under the stairs and if he, in his most private moments, wished to be _upstairs_ with Jim, well, that was between him, his hand and his dick.

Next?

**3\. Hair**

OH YEAH. He could change that big time. Okay, first on the list -- cut his hair. **_Off_**. Cool. Besides, he was fast approaching thirty, so why the hell not?

**4\. Transportation**

YES! This he could also change. After all, enough was enough. He was a big boy now and fuck the Volvo. So -- motorcycle.

Mmmm -- RIGHT ON, BROTHER!

Blair Sandburg, sleek, dangerous, riding a hog the way he'd like to ride -- yes, well. Anyway.

Next on the list -- sell the Volvo, buy a motorcycle.

**5\. Clothes**

This one was hard. Layers were good, layers were warm, layers were fine. But -- times, they are a changin'. When a person couldn't change jobs or homes, when they knew what the next fifteen years were going to be like -- Jim would probably retire at fifty-five, and even though he'd always be a Sentinel, he probably wouldn't need Blair to the same extent. Okay, so a person changed what they could. Especially when they were looking at the downside of their life. Hell, he'd be 45 when Jim retired. Unmarried, no kids and still living under Jim's stairs. Wait, that was unfair. Jim might move someday. Maybe Blair's room would get bigger? Cool. But still...

Right. So -- hip. He'd ditch the layers and go cool, hip and thirty. There was no reason to hide anymore -- no one looked anyway. And since his dick's best friend was his hand -- and his imagination -- for at least the next fifteen years -- why the hell not?

Okay. He looked over his list and nodded. Not bad. And hell, no time like the present to get started. Of course, cutting his hair would take a few days -- he needed to work his way up to that. But the car, the clothes, that could be started pronto.

Satisfied, Blair rose, put the pad away and whistling, grabbed his jacket, yelled, "Jim, I'm outta here for awhile!" and, without waiting for the usual grunt, he left.

*****

Jim lifted his head from the Sunday paper in time to see a whirl of flannel as Sandburg left. Just as the door closed, he said, "Right, gotcha. Have a good --"

_Yes. Well. He's gone. Wonder who the woman is?_ Jim straightened his paper, refolded the crease absently, then went back to reading as he sniffed and filled his senses with Blair.

*****

Well. That was easy. One, two, buckle my shoe and the Volvo was sold, but not gone. Sammy would take possession Friday. Which was kind of -- poetic. His birthday. Okay, so now -- the bike.

Three hours later, the bike had been chosen, but not available until Saturday. No problem. He could rearrange with Sammy to take possession of the Volvo on Saturday, drop him off at the dealer, and voila, Blair Sandburg would drive away on a new Honda. And wasn't the anniversary party for Simon on Saturday night?

Yep.

So. On Saturday, the new, improved Sandburg would make his appearance. Which meant that he'd need to cut his hair (you can do this, he coached) before he picked up the bike. No problemo.

That left his wardrobe. But it was late and he was hungry. Wardrobe would take time anyway. With a satisfied smile, Blair headed home.

*****

Over the next few days, Blair slowly divested himself of most of his clothes. The Salvation Army loved him. And of course, as he gave away, he purchased.

God, how he loved a regular paycheck. And a damn fine one at that.

*****

His birthday came and went unnoticed. Not unusual. Most birthdays after his move to Cascade had gone unnoticed. Well, his mother _had_ come to town for his twenty-first, but hell, he'd been drinking for the last five years, so it was hardly the milestone it was purported to be.

Of course, when he'd been a TA, his students usually had a ball with his birthdays. On his twenty-fifth, he found his desk littered with twenty-five shiny red apples. The class then stood and applauded, followed by the passing around of home-made brownies brought in by several female -- and a couple of male -- students.

On his twenty-eighth, his Anthro 101 class hired a stripper. Blair had spent two hours in the Chancellor's office over that one.

Quite a few birthdays had been spent in foreign countries and had been commemorated by the lifting of a beer and saluting himself in a mirror, or perhaps, if someone on the expedition found out, he'd find himself swallowing a frosted -- worm. Expedition humor was -- cute. Not.

Since joining Jim, well, birthdays weren't top of the list for Detective Ellison. Although Blair had always managed a little something for Jim around his great day. Rhonda kept a birthday list, but as Blair hadn't been a cop, he'd never made it on said list. Now that he was -- well, she hadn't quite got around to adding him.

So -- Friday was typical. The big three-oh came and went. Blair saluted himself in the bathroom mirror with a cup of water, which he drank, swirled, then spit out along with toothpaste. Of course, later in the day, he did find an e-mail from his mother. It was very chatty, but said nothing even remotely connected to, 'Happy Birthday, sweetie! Thirty years ago today, I gave birth to you and I've never regretted it for one moment!' But hey, it was Naomi, after all. At least it was an e-mail.

*****

Blair sat down in the chair and looked up at Dan, who said, "Weren't you just here for a trim, Blair?"

"Yep. But today -- take it off."

Dan blinked, then blinked again. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. I am thirty years old -- plus one day. Take it off."

Dan looked skeptical. "You want blinders?"

Smiling, Blair shook his head. "Nah. I'll just remove these." He slipped his glasses off and folded them. "There. I'm ready. Go to it, my man."

"Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Any idea of how short?"

"I leave the exact length to your good judgment, Dan. But short."

One hour later, Dan spun him back around and said, "Okay, take a look, Blair. And don't kill the scissor-man. I just take orders."

Blair donned his glasses and nearly fainted. "Wow."

"Personally, Blair. I like it. A lot. Your hair is terrific, but I've always told you that. It's naturally curly so I cut it to the wave. And may I say, you may be thirty -- and a day, but now you look --"

"Fuck. I look seventeen."

"Um -- yeah."

"Dan, that was _not_ the idea."

"Well, you could let it grow to say," he put his hands at jaw level, "here. That would probably add a few years..." His voice trailed off.

"It's okay, Dan. I asked for it and got it, and to tell the truth, I do like it."

He raked his fingers through the short, but thick, mass and nodded. Yeah, it was cool. And maybe -- it was time for an earring again. He might be thirty and a day, but he could be a cool thirty and a day.

*****

Blair stared at the bike. And then stared some more. He sighed. He smiled. Then he grinned like a drunken fool.

Sammy had just left in the Volvo and Blair's heartstrings had hardly zinged at all when the green bomb pulled away only to disappear into the sunset. Swinging his new black leather jacket from his shoulder, he slipped it on, then mounted the bike.

It had been awhile since he'd been on one, but as he'd learned before purchasing, you never forget how to ride a bike -- any bike. He put on his helmet, glanced down at his new boots and grinned again. Blair gave a quick glance at his watch and the grin turned to a scowl. He was already thirty minutes late to the party at Hooligans. By the time he got there, he'd be almost an hour late. But hey -- at least, he quickly patted his pocket and smiled -- yeah, at least he had his gift for the man.

As he kick-started the bike and felt the rumble of power between his legs, he grinned again. Seconds later he hit the street.

It only took him a few minutes to get the hang of it and in no time, he was flying. Blair almost wished he could take off his helmet, but while change in his life was good, being a vegetable for the rest of it wasn't. He watched his speed, but still -- he flew.

Maybe thirty wouldn't be so bad after all.

And the next fifteen years? A piece of cake.

*****

Jim sat back in the booth and huffed into his drink. Where the fuck was Sandburg? And what was with all the sudden weekend errands anyway? Hell, Jim had hardly seen him all week (if you didn't count working with him for an average of fourteen hours a day). Simon slid in next to him and jostled him a bit, but Jim managed to save his beer.

"Hey, where's Sandburg?"

"Like I know?"

Simon's eyes widened. "Okay, who peed in your sandbox today, Ellison?"

Jim turned a bleary gaze on his captain and shrugged. "Maybe it's the noise in here or something."

"Right. The noise. Like you're not spinning those knobs or whatever the hell Sandburg calls it?"

"Dialing down, Simon. Dialing down."

"Whatever. You are, aren't you? Dialed down, I mean."

"Yeah, but still --"

Simon gave his friend a good going over with his best 'In spite of my title, I'm still a detective' look and then nodded. "Yeah, but still -- no Sandburg yet."

"He's over an hour late, Simon."

Banks could have sworn Jim had just whined. But no, the man was almost forty -- he didn't whine.

"Yeah, he is. So did he say anything to you earlier today?"

"I never even saw him. He was up and gone by the time I went downstairs."

"Ah."

Jim peered at Simon over the rim of his mug. "'Ah'? What exactly does that mean?"

"Mmm, it means -- ah."

"Ah." Tired of the 'ah' game, Jim set his beer down and said grumpily, "I'm going to the head."

Simon let one eyebrow rise. "You do that, Jim."

It took everything in him not to stick out his tongue. Instead, Jim ignored Simon, slid out and headed to the restrooms in the back of Hooligans.

"He's in a bad mood, Captain."

"No kidding, Conner."

Megan patted Simon's shoulder. "Well, don't let the old fogey spoil your anniversary party, okay?"

"Like he could?"

Simon was receiving free drinks and all the food he could eat from Hooligans' excellent buffet, thanks to having, on Friday, completed twenty years with the Cascade PD. Many took retirement after twenty and those who didn't, well, most should have. Simon wasn't one of them though. He'd long since decided (about the time he signed divorce papers) that he was a thirty-year man.

He'd be in his late fifties when he finally retired and that suited him fine. And to be honest, though he'd never tell a soul, he had no intention of going any higher than where he was now. He enjoyed being Captain of Major Crime. Not to mention, Simon had a very special reason for remaining captain. Namely one very disgruntled detective with hyperactive senses.

Simon knew perfectly well that Jim dialed down his senses. He knew about piggybacking, zones, allergies, the whole magilla. But he also knew that if he appeared to take it lightly, Jim felt more secure and less like a freak. Thank God for a couple of late nights several months ago, nursing a drunk Sandburg who was worried about an injured Ellison. Amazing what a man learned from a sweet, worried, drunken kid.

Yep, Simon had learned way more than he'd ever wanted to learn about Jim, his dad, fears of being a freak, of being different, and about Sandburg and his theories. Theories that weren't theories. Theories that were fact.

Simon had learned a great deal about Sandburg that night too. But it didn't pay to think too much about what he'd learned. It had been too -- painful. Hell, Simon was a detective, for Christ's sake. How could he have missed all the signs? The way Sandburg talked a mile a minute. The way he dressed, combined with his strange individualism. The way he could disappear in a room full of people. Simon had finally, after over three years, realized that Blair Sandburg was deeper than the Mariannas Trench. And there wasn't a bitter bone in Sandburg's body.

As Simon watched his people laugh, drink and party, he wondered about Jim and Blair. Both men had more in common than either realized, yet both had handled their challenges differently. Sometimes, in the days and weeks since those babysitting nights with Sandburg, Simon wondered if maybe, just maybe, Blair didn't have the deeper wounds? If maybe --

"Simon, how 'bout a dance?" Rhonda leaned down and grinned in his face. She was well on her way to being thoroughly pie-eyed.

Figuring that he'd end up carrying her off the floor if they really tried to dance, he patted the seat next to him and said, "How 'bout you sit with me for a few? I'm lonely."

Nodding happily, she slid in. "I can do that. Shove it over, Conner."

Megan, biting back a laugh, did as she was ordered, then gave Rhonda a smart salute. Rhonda giggled.

"Hey, Simon, it may be your anniversary, but you're hogging all the ladies!"

"So join me, Henri."

"Don't think I won't." Henri pulled up a chair and sat down, then wiped his brow. "Boy, Alicia can really dance."

All three at the booth stared at him. Finally Simon harrumphed and said, "Alicia isn't dancing, H. She's our waitress."

"Maybe she's not dancing to _you_ , but to me an' Rafe -- that woman is _dancing_. I mean, have you seen that set of --"

"Trays?" Megan supplied helpfully.

"Um, yeah, 'trays'."

"Boy, she's got a set all right," Rafe added as he too sat down. "I could watch her all night with those -- trays."

Rhonda looked at Megan, who gazed back at her. Both rolled their eyes.

"Hey, where's Sandburg, by the way?" Henri asked, looking around.

"Not here yet. And before you ask, Jim's in the bathroom," Simon provided.

"Ah."

Simon couldn't help it. He laughed.

*****

Blair pulled into the parking lot, negotiated the bike over to where a few others were parked, and after shutting down, he climbed off. He locked her up, then took off his helmet and gloves which he stuffed inside the helmet. Blair ran his fingers through his short hair and smiled. Not bad, really. Felt kinda good. Straightening his jacket and the blue shirt, he headed indoors.

Hooligans was packed, but then it was a Saturday night. Even this early, the place was going strong. Of course, many of the guests were police officers and detectives, there to celebrate with Simon.

Since bikers were welcomed at Hooligans, there was a special shelf for helmets and Blair stored his away, then started to make his way toward the sound of Henri Brown's laugh. Which wasn't easy. Bodies were everywhere and the dancing had spilled off the dance floor. But eventually, he was standing in front of the large table where Simon and the others were seated.

Rhonda was the first one to see him and she smiled, then batted her eyes at him. He dropped his jaw. Rhonda never flirted with him. Then she waved and poked Megan in the side and pointed to him. Megan glanced up, then she smiled broadly and cocked her head invitingly. Good God, she was flirting with him too! Then she narrowed her eyes, leaned forward and finally said loudly, "MY GOD, IT'S SANDY!"

Several heads turned to look and Rafe, looking right past him, said, "Where?"

Rhonda clamped her hand over her mouth and blinked. Then said, "MY GOD, IT'S BLAIR!"

This time it was Henri who said, "Where?"

Blair thought maybe turning thirty was actually physically telling and maybe it wasn't so great after all. He can't have aged that much in one day? Sighing heavily, he bent down and waved a hand in front of Rafe's face. "Hello? Guess who?"

Rafe crossed his eyes, then uncrossed them. "Holy smokes. What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Blair rolled his eyes. Henri stood and tentatively reached out to touch Blair's head. Blair jerked back and said, "Hey, man!"

"You cut your hair," Henri said almost eerily.

"Well, yeah. Is that okay with you, Brown?"

Simon, who'd been listening and watching, his own mouth agape, finally found his voice. "Where's the flannel, Sandburg?"

Blair looked at Simon, then at Rafe and Brown. "Geesh, what's with you guys? Can't a person get a haircut? And so what if I'm not wearing flannel? What, now I suppose you want to know how many times I took a dump today? Three. And I flossed after every meal too."

Then he scraped his fingers through his hair and said, "Man, I need a drink." He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the back of Henri's chair and turned his back on the group to make his way to the bar.

Megan hissed and Rhonda gasped.

"My God, who knew?" Megan said in disbelief.

"Who knew what?" Henri asked.

"Who knew he was hiding that incredible ass under all those clothes?" Rhonda supplied helpfully, her eyes fixed on Blair's rear.

"He's got the cutest butt in the Cascade PD, and believe me, I know," Megan said dreamily.

Simon held up a hand. "Ladies, if you don't mind? I can skip the conversation regarding a butt belonging to one of my men."

It took everyone a moment, but when Simon's words finally sunk in -- the table exploded with laughter.

Finally Megan was able to say, "Oh, sure, you guys can talk about 'trays' but Rhonda and I can't talk about Blair's -- assets?" Then she turned to her gal pal and said conspiratorially, "Can you believe what layers of flannel can hide?"

Rhonda shook her head and grabbed Megan's lapel. "YOU KISSED HIM! YOU ACTUALLY KISSED HIM!"

Megan scoffed. "Yeah, but at the time, it was like kissing my brother _and_ we were on a case."

"I don't think it would be like kissing my brother, Megan."

"Well, I'll tell you what, I'll just head on over there and give it another try, okay? Then I'll report back to you."

"Oh, I don't think so, girlfriend, I think it's my turn."

Before either woman could move, Jim returned. "Hey, Sandburg get here yet?"

Five people said, "Oh, yeah."

Blair made his way through the crowd to the bar, his mind reeling from his friends' reaction to his haircut. Jeez, it was just a fucking haircut. When he arrived at the long brass counter, Blair managed to lean in between two people and, by yelling, got the bartender's attention.

"Beer with a tequila shot!"

The guy ambled over to him and smiled disarmingly, then said, "Driver's license, please, kid."

Blair was stunned. Flabbergasted. Shocked out of his skull. "Excuse me?"

*****

"He's here? Where?" Jim said as he looked around.

"Oh, he's headed for the bar. And Jim --" Simon stopped. Jim was already gone. "Well, damn."

*****

Jim made his way through the same crowd Blair had negotiated only minutes earlier. He still couldn't see him, but he could hear him. Jim paused and smiled, then his smile froze --

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Your driver's license, kid. We card in this joint and we don't serve minors. Now either pull it out or order a coke."_

_"This is ridiculous. I haven't been carded for -- like -- years. I'm fucking thirty years old, man!"_

_"So you want a coke, right?"_

_Jim heard Blair's sigh then the sound of fumbling which told Jim that the 'kid' was getting out his wallet._

_"There, does that satisfy you?"_

_"Well, I'll be damned. You **are** thirty -- and your birthday was yesterday. Well, happy birthday, Mr. -- um, Sandburg."_

_"Yeah, yeah -- now how 'bout that drink?"_

_"Hey, is that a PD ID?"_

_"Yes. Detective, Major Crime."_

_"So this shindig is for you? They celebrating your thirtieth?"_

_"Hardly. It's a kind of anniversary party for our Captain. And that drink?"_

Jim stopped listening. He couldn't move. Blair's birthday had been yesterday. _Fuck_. He headed back to the table, pushing and shoving, eager to beat his buddy.

"Hey, where's Sandburg? Didn't you spot him?"

"I spotted him, Rafe. Simon, we've got to do something. Yesterday was -- Blair's -- thirtieth."

Simon quickly sat forward. "What? You're shitting me? How could we not know? And his _thirtieth_? No way!"

"Way. We've got to do something, Simon."

Everyone immediately looked at Rhonda, who blushed. "I guess I forgot to add him to the birthday list -- I'm sorry Jim!"

"Hey, fine, so it's fixed now and next year, great. But his birthday was _yesterday_ ," Jim said, exasperated.

Megan snapped her fingers. "Look, Emilio's is two doors down and they don't close for another hour. We can get a cake there --"

"Yeah," Rhonda jumped in, "And there's that little flower shop at the end of the block, we could get him a great arrangement, with black balloons and everything! They're still open too!"

Simon looked around at his people. "Okay folks, let's get our money on the table." As bills were slapped down, he added, "Okay, who's gonna tackle the bakery?"

No one moved. He looked at Megan.

"Oh sure. The _ladies_ have to do it." Then she turned to Rhonda who immediately nodded.

"Yeah, I'll take the florist shop. And actually, it makes sense, us doing this. Women can do it all, you know? Shoot up the bad guys, type 80 words per minute, keep Simon's schedule organized _and_ take care of a cake and some flowers. We be the best." She and Megan high-fived, then gathered up the money.

"Okay, keep him busy, we'll be back as quickly as possible," Megan ordered.

A little booth shuffling was needed, but finally the two women were up and moving out. Once they were gone, Jim sank thankfully into Megan's spot.

"I can't believe you didn't know, Jim. You live with the guy."

"You think I'm not saying the same thing to myself, Simon? And this isn't just a birthday, it's the big three-oh. I'm kicking myself here."

There was a thud, then Jim yelped. "Hey! That hurt!"

"Just thought as long as you were kicking yourself, I'd add my own. And we _all_ should have known." Then Simon grew serious as he added, "You know, there hasn't been a single birthday of any of ours that he didn't have the perfect gift for. And last year, it was Blair who remembered Megan's and got it on the list. But in three years, his has never been there. What the fuck does that say about us?"

No one could say a word in response. But Jim couldn't help but wonder what it said about _him_. Blair had been a part of his life for better than three years and yet, he couldn't remember a single birthday that he'd celebrated for Blair. He thought about Naomi and prayed that she'd done _something_.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Simon?"

"Listen, when he gets here, well, we razzed him a bit about -- well, about how he looks. So maybe if you pretended that you didn't notice anything?"

Eyes widening in alarm, Jim said, "What the hell do you mean? His _looks_?"

"Didn't you see him at the bar?"

Jim shook his head, suddenly feeling numb. "No, I heard him."

"Uh-oh. Well -- see -- he, um --"

"He cut his hair, Jim," Rafe supplied helpfully.

"And he's dressed different too, Jim. It's weird. No flannel, no layers," Henri added.

Jim's eyes immediately went out to the crowd but he couldn't see Blair yet. Maybe he'd decided to have his first drink at the bar --

"Hey, somebody scoot over," Blair said.

Jim blinked. Looked up. And started choking.

"Hey, Simon, do something, Jim's choking!" Blair said, as he quickly set his beer down.

Simon started hitting Jim on the back as Henri moved and let Blair slide in.

"Jim, man, you okay?" Blair said as he leaned over, concern written all over his face.

Waving his hands and trying to push Simon away, Jim spoke. "I'm fine..." he coughed, "just stop hitting me, Simon!"

"Sorry, but you were cho--"

"I'm fine, just dandy and Sandburg, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

"Oh, swell, not you too. It's a fucking haircut, okay?" He made little motions with his fingers, mimicking scissors. "You go to a barber shop and they cut your hair, you know?"

"Right, right, a haircut. But you _weren't_ going to do that, remember? You went through the entire Academy with long hair. Why now?"

Blair took a swig of his beer and looking out over the crowd, he said nonchalantly, "Oh, just felt like it. Needed a change, you know?"

"Oh. A change. Sure. I get it. A change." Jim turned to Simon. "He needed a --"

"Change," Simon finished Jim's sentence.

"Hey, where are the ladies?"

"Oh. The ladies. Right. Um, where are they again, Simon?" Jim played dumb and threw the ball at his captain.

"Um, yeah, where are they, Rafe?" Simon was a damn fine ballplayer himself and, as a captain... well, delegation was mandatory.

Rafe scratched the back of his head and said, "Henri?"

"Simon?" Henri always loved throwing balls back at his captain. That's what captains were for, right?

"Little girls room."

"Right," Jim jumped in. "Powdering their noses."

Blair took his eyes from the crowd and arched an eyebrow. Everyone looked away.

"So, Sandburg, you were late. What happened, besides the obvious." Jim motioned to Blair's hair.

"Oh, just had some -- errands to do, that's all. Sorry about being late, Simon. And by the way, congratulations on twenty years." Then Blair reached for his jacket, fumbled in the pocket and took out a gift. "Here you go, sir."

Simon took it, surprise evident on his face. "Sandburg, you didn't have to --"

"It's just a little something from Jim and me. No biggie. And Daryl helped."

Slowly Simon tore at the wrappings. When the paper was gone, he was left with a black box about the size and shape of a watch box. He opened the lid and gasped. "How --"

"Like I said, Daryl helped. I was trying to figure out the best way to commemorate twenty years, and we got to talking and he remembered you had that in a box of stuff. Jim and I simply had it mounted."

Carefully, Simon lifted the item from the box and held it up. It was his original badge, denoting his status as an officer of the law, only now it was mounted in a shadow box case and below it, a small gold plate on which the words, 'Officer to Detective-Captain in Only Twenty' were engraved, followed by his name.

"Jim, Sandburg, I don't know what to say. Except -- thank you. Thank you very much."

Blair shrugged, then winked at Jim.

"Hey, look who's back from the restroom," Rafe said, warning in his voice.

Megan slid in next to Blair, just beating out Rhonda, who with a pout, slid in next to Jim.

"So, mission accomplished, ladies?" Simon asked innocently.

"Yes, sir."

"Very good."

Henri reached over and took Blair's gift from Simon and held it up. "Check this out, guys. Jim and Blair gave this to Simon."

Megan and Rhonda both whistled. "Very cool, sir,"

Rhonda said, as she admired the badge and the gold plate. "I agree, this is wonderful. Good job!"

Jim shot a dagger look at Blair, who just grinned.

At that moment, the music stopped and the DJ stood, took a microphone and addressed the crowd. "All right, ladies and gents, it's Texas line-dancing time! All you shit-kickers out there, now's the time to strut your stuff." He pointed to a spot on the dance floor and said, "The line forms here, so come on!"

Megan immediately jumped up, reached down and grabbed Blair's hand, then said, "Come on, Sandy, let's show them how it's done."

Laughing, he slid out and stood. "All right, all right, I'm up for it if you are."

Grinning, she tugged at him, saying, "You bet I am. Let's go, partner."

As the two walked onto the dance floor, both missed the look that crossed Jim's face. And the way he slid down in his seat.

Simon looked from Jim to Megan and Blair, then back to Jim. _Uh-oh. Rough seas ahead,_ he thought.

*****

"You know how to do this, right?"

"You ask me to dance and _then_ you want to know if I can?"

Megan grinned cheekily. "Oh, I know you can dance, you do it around Simon all the time. But can you line-dance?"

"Ah. Sure."

They took their place with the others just as the DJ jumped back up onto the platform. Beaming down at his victims, about fifteen of them, he addressed the crowd.

"Okay, this is how it works. I play the music, you guys dance. Then I come down, hand some poor unsuspecting boob -- er, some lucky soul, the mike and they start singing with the music while dancing. If I take the mike away, you are really, really, really bad and must exit the floor. If you keep the mike, you are really, really, really good and have to keep going. If you have the mike at the end of the set, you win." Then he winked. "And what do you win? One free dinner at Hooligans, that's what. Oh, and," he held up a tee-shirt, "this nifty Hooligans shirt proclaiming your greatness."

He set the shirt down, then grinned maniacally. "Okay, boys and girls, this is it. The song is, 'They're Taking Everything Away' and let's hope you know the words!"

He set down the mike and seconds later, the music started playing. Everyone was in line and immediately began dancing, heel, toe, forward two steps, back one step, turn, clap, start over. The music was loud, the line dancers were good.

For the gang of Major Crime, there was no doubt as to the best on the floor. Rhonda had to pick up a menu and start fanning herself as she watched Blair's hips, then his butt. His tight-fitting jeans showed every part of his body off to its best advantage and the purple shirt, tucked in, with sleeves rolled up, emphasized his slender waist, nice chest and highlighted his eyes. And he moved like nobody's business.

Rhonda wasn't the only one at the MC table looking. Jim was bug-eyed. As he watched, he found that no matter how hard he tried, when the line had their backs to the table, his eyes focused on Sandburg's butt and nowhere else. And he _did_ try. Hard. Jesus, he'd been living with the guy for years -- so where the hell had that butt been?

_Under layers of flannel and baggy pants, that's where._

Oh, yeah.

Jim could feel the heat around him and he wondered if anyone else was as warm.

The crowd was clapping with the dancers, yelling out, " _yoo_ haw," "yee _haw_!" and singing along. Finally the DJ jumped down from his perch and strolled around a few seconds before handing off the mike to an unsuspecting woman. She took it, giggled, then started singing -- badly. He let her get out a sentence, then quickly snatched it away. By now, the song was on its second replay and the dancers were really moving.

The DJ strolled around, then, spotting another victim, he started moving fast.

"Oh, my God, he's gonna hand the mike to Megan!" Rhonda crowed.

"No, no, I'm betting -- Sandburg," Simon guessed. Sure enough, the mike was handed to Blair, who stared at it a moment, then after a nudge from Megan, began to sing while he continued to line dance.

His voice was good, his moves better. He was grinning as he sang and having fun with the lyrics, especially pointing at Jim when he hit the words, "No more burgers, no more fries --" The best part came when he sang, "No more sex, or you might die," and two members of the audience held out condoms. Blair line danced over to one woman and took the condom out of her hand, then, winking, tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. The crowd went wild. Jim moaned.

By the time the song wound down, the whole restaurant was singing with Blair and the music, including Major Crime. The DJ let it go one more time and Blair sang it again, this time from the top.

Jim had finally had enough. He shoved at Simon, who slid out. Jim stood on the fringe of the dance floor for a moment and when the line drew close to his position, he stepped in. Next to Blair.

*****

Blair had to admit, he was having a blast. And then -- Jim stepped in beside him and started to line dance. While staring at Blair. O-kay. This was -- different.

And very cool.

As they pivoted, Blair got a good look at Jim's moves -- and his ass, and he almost forgot the next lyric. Seemed as though Mr. Ex-Ranger, Tougher-Than-Nails Ellison could dance. Who'da thunk it?

The song finally ended and Blair still had the mike. Everyone rose and applauded as the DJ led him to the bandstand. He presented him with the shirt and gift certificate, then said, "Young man, you can sing here any time you want."

Someone in the audience yelled out, "And don't forget the dancing! He can wiggle that cute butt of his anytime!" Then someone else yelled out, "Hey, honey, bring that butt right over here!" Everyone laughed as Blair blushed to the roots of his hair. He thanked the DJ, then jumped down and with eyes glued to the floor, he made his way back to the table. Jim was leaning against the booth, arms crossed over his chest and smiling like the Cheshire cat. "Not bad, Sandburg, not bad at all. You've got all the moves, baby."

Blair grinned at him, remembering the first time Jim had said that. "Hey, you're not bad in the move department yourself, Detective Ellison."

For a moment, their eyes met and neither one saw anything else, then Megan bumped Blair with her hip and quipped, "What about me, Sandy?"

"Oh, hey, _very_ down under moves, Megan. You're," he looked up at her and patted the top of her head, "tops with me, kid."

"I've got five years and how many inches on you, squirt?"

"Who you calling squirt?" Blair said, a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Jim patted Blair on the top of the head and said, "You, squirt."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Jeez. Just because I'm surrounded by sequoias doesn't make me a squirt."

"You're right," Simon interjected. "It makes you a twig."

Jim grinned and gave Blair a little shove. "Sit, twig, take a leaf off."

"Aw, God, now I have to put up with _another_ nickname?"

"No, Sandburg, I think we're all in agreement that 'Twig' is it. As of this moment, I, Henri Brown, do hereby swear off calling you Hairboy and will, from this day forward, call you Twig."

Chortling, Rafe said with a leer, "And I now, with the power invested in me as a detective with Major Crime, do hereby pronounce you, Rolly Polly and you, Twig, husband and husband. You may now give the junior detective from Prospect Avenue a noogie."

Blair turned to Henri and eyes wide, said, "Rolly Polly? _Rolly Polly_?"

"Aw, Rafe, now you've gone and done it. He has -- a weapon."

Rubbing his hands together with glee, Blair said with his own leer, "Oh, you bet I do. Hey, Jim, what's her name? Down in Community Affairs?"

Grinning from ear to ear, Jim said, "Cynthia."

"Ah, yes. The wonderful and leggy Cynthia. I do believe she deserves to know about her 'Rolly Polly', don't you, Jim?"

"Oh, yeah."

Henri dropped his head into his hands and started moaning -- loudly.

Simon slapped him on the back. "Buck up, Brown, be a man. Rolly Polly isn't so bad."

Eyes narrowed, Henri fixed his captain with a glare. "No, sir, it isn't. Or should I say, No, _Mama Bear_ , it isn't?"

Megan leaned down, her face positively glowing. "Did you say, 'Mama Bear'?"

Nodding cheerily, Brown said, "Yep. Hey, Joel, care to share with everyone just how our super captain came to be called Mama Bear?"

Simon rested his chin in his hand and said innocently, "Yeah, Joel, or should I say, Dopey?"

"Uh-oh, we seem to have started something, Jim."

Ellison held up both his hands as if to ward off his partner. "Hey, don't say _we_ , Kemosabe. You're in this one all by yourself."

Rhonda took a sip of her drink, then said airily, "Anyone want to know Rafe's nickname in the locker room?"

"Rhonda, fellow sister, I'll give you five bucks if you'll tell me." Megan said, as she waved a five-dollar bill in her compadre's face.

Henri took out his wallet and laid a ten on the table. "I'll see that and raise it five."

Blair nonchalantly plucked the ten off the table, tucked in his shirt pocket and said, "Boomer."

Rafe cringed and everyone started laughing. "Aw, that's no fair," Rafe whined.

"I'll say," Rhonda said, "I stood to make fifteen bucks. Hey, Blair, how did you --"

"You don't want to know, Rhonda, you don't want to know."

That sent everyone into gales of laughter until Jim said, "Oh, Conner? Care to share _your_ nickname, as presented to you by Burglary last June?"

Megan blushed and waved a hand. "No, no, that's all right. I think I'll take a pass."

Eyeing Sandburg, Henri waved his wallet under Jim's nose. "I'm willing to pay, Jimbo. Spill."

Jim rubbed his fingers together and said, "Let me see the green stuff, Brown."

Brown shot another suspicious look at Sandburg, who shrugged helplessly and said, "Hey, that was _their_ bust, I was in the middle of finals, remember?"

Slowly, Brown took out a five and waved it at Jim. "Okay, spill."

Before Jim could say anything, Megan made a grab for the money, but Henri managed to pull it away in time -- only to have Sandburg grab it and say, "Treetops."

"YOU LIED!" Brown yelled.

Smiling, Blair said, "No, I didn't, but I did hear all about it from Detective Helman a few days later."

Megan snorted. "Helman. Figures. Talk about short. He's short in stature, short in brains and he has a short --" she stopped, blushed, then said, "Hey, I saw him in the locker room, okay?"

"Man, I have _got_ to start spending some time in the locker room, that's all there is to it," Rhonda quipped.

Before anyone could offer the proper retort, a man made his way through the crowd yelling, "BLAIR SANDBURG? BLAIR SANDBURG?"

Frowning, Blair raised his hand, saying, "OVER HERE!"

The man spotted him and nodding, came up alongside and presented Blair with the huge basket in his arms. "Delivery for Blair Sandburg. Sign here, please."

Mouth open and gaze fixed on the basket and attached balloons, Blair held out his hand. The clipboard was placed into it and without taking his eyes off the flowers, he signed. The guy handed over the whole thing, tipped his hat and headed out.

"My God."

It was all Blair could say as he looked at the arrangement of white lilies. He stared at the black ribbon woven through the greenery, reading the words in gold, that said, 'You only think you're dead at thirty', then his gaze swept up to several black balloons, all proclaiming, 'RIP' or 'Over the hill at thirty'.

Somehow he managed to get the basket on the table and, once out of his arms, he was able to take the small card out of the flowers. He flipped it over, read it, then looked up.

"How -- how did you --"

"Happy birthday, Chief," Jim said, his eyes smiling.

"Yeah, Sandburg, happy thirtieth!" Simon added.

After that, everyone started slapping him on the back and Rhonda and Megan quickly excused themselves. While Blair was still speechless, the two women came back, each with a cake in their hands.

"Happy birthday, Sandy," Megan said as she put down his cake.

"Happy anniversary, Captain," Rhonda said as she put down his cake.

Blair and Simon looked at each other, then grinned.

"Well, let's dig in!" they said together.

*****

The party that had become a birthday celebration as well as anniversary party was finally winding down. Everyone's internal clocks were telling them that it was time to go home and their bleary eyes were yelling, 'Designated driver!'

For Rhonda, Megan and Rafe, the DD was Joel. For Henri and Simon, it was Jim. Blair, thanks to remembering his new bike, had stopped drinking anything stronger than coke after his first beer with a tequila shooter.

As the gang stood and played shuffle the coats and jackets, Blair's eyes fell on his flowers and he groaned. Large floral arrangements didn't usually go well with motorcycles. And motorcycles didn't come equipped with back seats.

"Hey, Jim? Could we put these in the truck?"

"Sure. Who do I leave behind? Simon or Henri?"

"Oh shit."

"And what's wrong with the Volvo?"

"Oh, nothing. Really. I'm sure it's running fine."

Jim, who'd been surreptitiously helping Simon on with his coat, stopped and stared at Blair. "Um, Sandburg? Care to explain that remark?"

"I -- um -- well, sold -- it."

Drunk was drunk, but the detectives of Major Crime weren't so drunk that they failed to understand the meaning of _'I -- um -- well, sold -- it.'_

Simon turned, his coat now hanging from one arm and said, shocked, "You _what_?"

"I sold it. You know, like someone gives me money and I give them a car. I gave Sammy the Volvo, he gave me money."

Blair finally found his jacket -- on Rhonda -- and while he fished around for her blue woolen coat, everyone else started talking.

"He couldn't have -- wouldn't have," Megan decried.

"Sandburg _sold_ the Volvo? No way," Rafe added.

Simon sat down and, thanks to a hand from Jim, his seat was actually the booth as opposed to the floor. "Jim, he sold it. Blair sold the Volvo."

"Yes, so it seems."

Blair carefully extricated his new jacket from Rhonda, who looked at him dreamily and said, "I'd take good care of it, Blair. It smells soooo good."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you would, Rhonda, but your coat is so much warmer and to tell the truth, it's not quite my style."

She giggled, let him put her in it, then she leaned into him, took a good whiff and said, "You smell good too, just like your jacket. Have you always smelled this good, Blair?" She batted her eyes. Blair rolled his.

Jim took Rhonda's arm, handed her over to Joel and said, "Yes, Rhonda, he _has_ always smelled this good. Say goodnight now and trust me, in the morning, you won't remember a thing."

Rhonda waved as she said, "Goodnight now. And I'll remember Blair's cute --"

"Come on, Rhonda, let's get you home -- now," Joel said with a chuckle. He nodded at Jim, Simon, and Henri as he shepherded his flock out of the restaurant, Megan and Rhonda straining to get a final glimpse of Blair's assets.

The last thing anyone could hear was Rafe -- "He sold the Volvo, you guys. And hey, I have a cute ass -- look!"

Jim smiled and shook his head, then helped Simon up again while Blair put on his jacket and avoided looking at either man.

"Sandburg, you really sold it?"

"Yes, Simon, I really sold it."

"I thought you loved that car."

"I did, now I don't. Now I love my --"

"Your what?" Jim asked, his curiosity burning.

They'd made it to the door, Jim handling Simon and Blair handling his arrangement. At the shelves, Blair took down his helmet and held it up as he juggled his flowers in his other arm.

"That's a helmet, Chief," Jim observed dryly.

"Yep, it is."

Simon lowered himself enough to get a good, drunken look and said with a firm nod, "It most certainly is. Does this mean Sandburg bought a motorcycle, Jim?"

"It most certainly does."

Jim got the front door open, then smiled. "Oh, Chief?"

"Mm?"

"It's -- raining."

Henri, who'd been bringing up the rear and trying to track the conversation, peeked around Jim and said, "Hell, yeah, it's raining. It's wet out."

"Well fuck," Blair said.

*****

Jim pulled up in front of Hooligans and honked. The door opened and Blair, flowers and balloons in arms, came out. Jim reached over and opened the passenger door, then settled back, and with a smile, watched his partner juggle the flowers as he tried to get them and the balloons inside the truck. It took him several minutes to position the basket and tie down the balloons so they wouldn't interfere with Jim's ability to see, but when he was done, he collapsed on the seat and pulled the door shut.

"Bike secure?"

"Yeah. It's not the only one spending the night under the protective awning of Hooligans."

"Good, good." He shifted into drive and pulled out into the light, late night traffic.

"Get Simon and Henri settled all right?"

Jim nodded and grinned. "Yeah, but it wasn't a pretty sight. I swear, I will never try to put Henri to bed again. Simon wasn't so bad, he just kept muttering about detectives turning thirty and buying motorcycles in the Pacific Northwest. But Henri, well, apparently when drunk, he can't tell a big cop from a leggy brunette."

"Uh-oh. Poor Jim."

"Hey, I've fought off bigger and badder suitors than him."

"Badder suitors? _Badder_?"

"Can it, Sandburg."

Blair couldn't really see Jim through the leaves of his flowers, but he knew the man was smiling. He grinned then took a big whiff and nearly choked. Shit, if the smell of the lilies was bad for him --

"Uh, Jim, how 'bout stopping off at Cascade General and letting me drop these off for one of the wards?"

Jim spared a glance for his friend and grinned. "Oh yeah, lilies in a hospital ward, Sandburg. Real good. I'm thinking the best you could do would be a mortuary, sunny boy."

"Aw shit. I didn't think of that. Lilies wouldn't be very cheering to someone ill, would they?"

"Nope. And why would you want to drop them anywhere? What, you don't like 'em?"

"Hey, I've never received flowers for anything, I love them, but come on, buddy, the smell. You've got to be dying right now."

Jim shook his head, smile still in place. "Nah. I'm dialed down. Don't worry about it. Just enjoy them."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. And Chief?"

"What?"

"Happy Birthday."

"Thanks, Jim. Thanks."

They made the rest of the trip in almost complete silence until Jim couldn't handle his curiosity any longer -- he had to ask.

"Care to tell me about the changes? Or was it simply the whole turning thirty thing?"

. . .

"Did you hear me, Blair?"

"I'm right next to you, of course I heard. There just doesn't happen to be an answer. I'm kinda stunned that there was a question. I cut my freakin' hair and bought a bike. So what? Surely the wild and woolly Blair Sandburg isn't that predictable that buying a new mode of transportation should be so surprising?"

"First off," Jim said as he checked his mirrors, "the best I'll give you is 'funky and flannelly', and second, how you felt about both the Volvo and your hair are kind of legendary. And predictable? Not hardly. But still, even with someone as spontaneous as you, well, there are things we come to rely on, and you blew our minds tonight."

"I'm pretty sure flannelly isn't a word."

"Blair, I'm trying to have a meaningful, Sandburgian conversation here, okay? Don't blow it."

"Look, Jim, it's no mystery. I had short hair for years before I met you, have had long hair for three years now, I simply went back to the old me."

"And the Volvo?"

"To quote the great Tim Taylor -- 'More power'."

"In the Pacific Northwest, Chief? You've severely limited yourself to good days for using that thing. Unless you want to spend the majority of your life -- wet."

Blair's shoulders slumped. He hated it when Jim got practical. Which was most of the time. He also hated it when Jim was right. Which, coincidentally, was also most of the time.

Suddenly his mood took a crash dive. Even trying to change, to add spice to the next fifteen years, he'd screwed up. Blair ran his fingers through the short mess of curls and grimaced. He'd screwed up there, too. He already missed his old look. God damn it, he probably looked as idiotic as he felt.

Jim pulled into his usual parking spot and turned off the lights and engine. He didn't move right away, instead apparently preferring to sit as the rain pelted the truck.

"We gonna make a dash for it, Jim?" Blair asked quietly.

"Yeah, guess we'd better. I should have known about the weather, I usually do."

"Hey, nobody's perfect, not even The Sentinel of the Great City."

Jim snorted and opened his door, Blair doing the same.

"On three, Chief."

"You go on three, I've got these flowers, I'll go on five," Blair said, a smile in his voice.

"Shit. Okay, I'll take the flowers and we go on two."

Blair frowned. "Mm, Jim? How did we go from going on three, to you taking the flowers and then going on two?"

Jim rolled his eyes and reached for the flowers. Blair beat him and grabbed the arrangement to his chest. "Uh-uh. My flowers, I carry them. Now go. And frankly my dear, I don't give a damn if you go on one, two or one hundred, just _go_!"

One eyebrow arched, Jim shook his head, took a deep breath -- and ran for it, the door slamming behind him. Blair watched, then climbed out, flowers juggled with the balloons. He kicked his door shut and started running.

Except the balloons got in his way.

His feet flew up along with the flowers and when everything came down, Blair was sitting -- on his birthday present.

"DAMN!"

Jim, who was watching from the lobby door, quickly darted back into the street, his jacket hunched over his head protectively. "Sandburg? You okay?"

"No, I'm not, you idiot. And my flowers are ruined."

"Well, ye-ah. You landed on them. But at least that cute ass of yours had a soft landing. And you popped at least two of those balloons."

"Fuck you," Blair said amicably. Then he stood, gazed down at the mess and bent over to retrieve what he could.

"Not salvageable, Chief. Let's get it over to the trash."

"Damn, you're right." Shoulders once again slumped, Blair started for the alley and the trash bins.

*****

The sound of wet leather and waterlogged shoes were about to cause a chuckle -- until Jim looked over his shoulder at the man responsible -- the chuckle died.

Blair was wet. All over. His short curls were plastered to his head, his new jacket was slick with water, his shirt was plastered to his chest and water dripped with every step. In his wet hand he held one relatively undamaged lily and in his other, one limp balloon. A more miserable person Jim had never seen.

Jim got the front door open and immediately turned on the heat, then as Blair sloshed in, Jim hurried to the bathroom, grabbed two towels, then back to Mr. 'Cold and Wet is My World'. "Okay, let's get the jacket off first, Chief."

Blair, head down, started past Jim, but Jim was having none of it. He plucked first the damp flower, then the balloon out of Blair's hands and dropped them on the table, then he grabbed the back collar of Blair's jacket and tugged. Blair moved and it came off. Jim smiled and immediately dropped one of the towels over Blair's head.

"At least with short hair, it'll dry fast," Jim offered helpfully.

Blair just shrugged and started rubbing.

"Come on, Chief, you need to get out of those -- hey, those are new too, aren't they? New shirt, new slacks --"

Blair pulled the towel down and shot Jim a suspicious look. "Okay, I suppose now you've got a problem with my new clothes too, right?"

Jim stepped back, hands raised. "No, no, honest. It's just that -- well, everything -- _fits_."

"Jeez."

"Aw, come on, Chief. You know damn well that you usually wear layers or if not, then things are kind of -- baggy. Now you're wearing..." he indicated the shirt and slacks, "... those. And they fit."

"So you said, asshole."

"Look, is this a second childhood thing? Because if it is, I think you should know that you never actually got out of --"

"I get it, Jim. I never got out of the first one. Har-har." Blair emphasized Jim's point by sticking out his tongue. Then he turned and started for his room.

"Wait a minute!"

Blair turned, towel in hand. "Yeah?"

Jim's expression went hard. "You're seeing someone! That's why the clothes, the hair, the bike, all of it. You're goddamn seeing someone! Okay, who is she?"

"Are you nuts, Jim?"

"You can't fool me, that's it, isn't it?"

"I'm not seeing anyone, Jim. I just wanted -- a change, that's all. Just a change to mark the movement out of one decade and into another. Period."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. I think I'd know if I were dating someone. Okay, maybe not as quickly as the Sentinel of the Great City -- but eventually, I'd know."

"Very funny. My turn to say har-har."

"Can I go to my room now?"

"Get out of here, you're dripping all over the floor."

Blair saluted, entered his room -- shut the door after him -- and locked it.

Jim's mouth dropped open. He closed it. Then walked over to the French doors. "Hey, you locked the doors!"

"So?"

"You never lock the doors."

"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, JIM!"

The doors were thrown open and a shirtless Blair stood there, body stiff with anger. "SO WHAT IF I LOCKED THE FUCKING DOORS? SO WHAT?"

Holding up his hands in a warding off gesture, Jim backed up. "Okay, okay, sorry. Jeez." Then his eyes spotted the bags on the bed. He moved forward until Blair blocked his path. He looked over Blair's head.

"You bought more new clothes!"

Blair stared up at the ceiling and counted to ten. Then, "Yes, Jim," he said patiently, "I bought more new clothes. Dear me, call the FBI pronto."

"Don't be a smartass. This is serious."

Blair put a hand on Jim's chest as the older man started into Blair's room. "Tell me you're kidding. Just tell me that. People buy new clothes all the time."

"You don't. And if you do, it's not from -- shit -- do those bags say _Barney's_?"

Blair groaned and dropped his hand. "Man, I don't believe this," he moaned as Jim moved past him to investigate the clothing bags. "Jim, this is not a crime scene, you know?"

Jim wasn't listening. He was holding up a soft, pale green shirt, eyes wide and incredulous. "This is _not_ flannel, Chief."

Anger getting the better of him, Blair reached out and snatched the item from Jim's hand. "Look buster, they're clothes. JUST CLOTHES. And you are seriously starting to piss me off here, you know?"

" _I'm_ starting to piss _you_ off, Chief? I'm not the one doing the complete and unabridged version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Blair's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could snap back at Jim, the older man went on.

"Fuck, Sandburg, what's next? You gonna turn _me_ in on a newer, younger model? You found a younger Sentinel out there, huh? Some leggy blon--" Jim stopped, tried to retrieve the words, but they were out there and from the look on Blair's face, oh, yeah, it was way too late.

Blair turned around, picked up a coat hanger from his bed and carefully hung up the new shirt. Then he walked to his closet and slid it in among the few remaining flannel shirts. With his back still turned toward Jim, he said quietly, "Jim, there are some things in my life that I can't change and in turning thirty, I realized that. So I decided to change the things that I could. Pretty simple really."

Jim felt like an ass. Until --

"Blair, what _can't_ you change?"

"It doesn't matter, okay? Let's just drop it. I'm going to bed."

He finally turned around and, without looking at Jim, he picked up the bags, set them down on the floor, then sat down on the bed and started to take off his boots.

Jim watched from a distance that seemed suddenly to be worlds away. Because he knew. "Jesus. It's all this, isn't it? You were staring at thirty and realizing that you faced years of being my backup, of being a cop --"

Jim couldn't finish. Couldn't begin to put words to this new reality. He'd never looked that far ahead, never _dared_ look that far ahead. Until now. Suddenly ill, he turned and hurried from the room.

*****

Blair stared at Jim's retreating back, shock written all over his face. Then one boot off and one still on, he jumped up and raced after his friend.

"Jim, wait! That's not... listen, man --"

"Can it, Sandburg." Jim dropped down into the sofa and rested his head in his hands.

Blair stopped. Could he really screw up, or what? He moved to the back of the couch and resting his hands there, Blair cleared his throat and said, "Jim, it's not that. Honest."

"Right, Sandburg. Right. You never once considered the stretch of years, things as they are now, stuck grounding some dumb-shit Sentinel. Of course not."

Blair stared at the back of Jim's head, his mind reeling. "Jim, I had no idea you even understood, that you knew --"

"That I knew I needed you for grounding? Haven't I been listening to you for over three years? Of course I know how much I need you to function."

"Actually, no, I didn't know you'd been listening to me."

Head still in hands, Jim said peevishly, "I always listen. I even learn."

Blair felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He moved around the couch and over to stand in front of Jim. He squatted down and placed his hands on Jim's legs. "Jim, it wasn't the prospect of facing the next fifteen years like this that spooked me, it was the prospect of facing the next fifteen years -- like this."

Jim lifted his head and fixed his confused stare on his partner. "I'm not even going to pretend to understand what you just said, Sandburg."

"Jim, I don't mind the next fifteen years spent in a small room under the stairs. Okay? But you see, it was the idea that it would be spent in the small room under the stairs."

"I'm supposed to figure something out now, aren't I?"

Blair sat back on his heels and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "You change what you can, man. That's all." Blair got up, patted Jim on the back, then went to his room and closed the door behind him.

Jim listened and was relieved when Blair didn't lock it. He fell back against the couch and rubbed his eyes. He just knew he was still supposed to figure something out, and that it was terribly important to both of them.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years living with Jim. Working with Jim. Fifteen more years of taking care of a Sentinel. Suddenly Jim shot up, then stalked to the French doors, opened them and stepped inside.

"Where did you come up with fifteen years? Why not twenty? Or twenty-five?" he demanded.

Blair was standing by his bed wearing only his shorts. In his hand he held his tee shirt. At Jim's question, the shirt dropped from his hands. "You are nuts, Jim."

"Why only fifteen?" Jim demanded again.

Rolling his eyes, Blair said in an exasperated tone, "I don't know. I guess I just figured you'd retire at about fifty-five, that's all. And once you retire, you won't need me so much."

"Oh."

Jim continued to stand there and he was looking at a puzzle and the parts were floating just out of his reach so he examined them, tried to grab a hold of them, but one of the pieces became Blair, standing by the bed in nothing but his boxers -- short, well-fitting boxers -- and the other pieces faded as he found himself concentrating on Blair -- in his boxers.

White boxers. Not baggy, like he usually wore --

Retirement. Age fifty-five. Changing what you can.

The bedroom under the stairs.

This.

Five-foot-seven. Compact body. Curling chest hair. Slender frame. Short dark curling hair. High cheekbones. Full lips. Changing what you can. Age fifty-five. Blue, blue eyes, thick lashes. Broad forehead. The bedroom under the stairs --

This.

Jim smiled softly. "I wouldn't retire without you, Sandburg. When I'm fifty-five, you'll be forty-five. Would you retire with me?"

Blair cocked his head. Then he smiled. "Yeah, yeah I would, Jim."

Jim took a step further into the room. "I could handle retirement with you, Chief. But that's still --"

"Fifteen years away."

"Fifteen years away. So in the meantime, maybe you'd consider changing your living arrangements? Moving upstairs, perhaps?"

"I might. I mean, look at everything I've changed in the last five days. I think I could easily handle a simple move upstairs."

Jim shook his head. "No, not simple, Chief. Not simple at all."

Blair grinned and moved closer to Jim. "Sure it is, Jim. I got rid of almost all my flannel."

Smiling down at Blair's upturned face, Jim reached out and took a short curl between two fingers. He played with it, then said, "Simple then. So simple."

"Yeah."

"Nice, for a change. This simple thing."

"Very."

Jim took another step closer so that he was now almost standing against Sandburg. He released the curl and ran a hand through the short hair. "Thirty. You're thirty."

"Yeah."

Jim whispered, "Let it grow back, for me?"

"For you."

"But don't change anything else, okay?"

"The sheets. I'll change the sheets. Often, I suspect."

"With me sharing a bed? Oh, yeah, often. If we're lucky, for awhile at least, several times a day."

Blair began to studiously unbutton Jim's shirt. "You could start on the slacks, Jim," he suggested helpfully. "Just so we -- match."

"Ah."

Jim unbuttoned and unzipped and a minute later, he too was standing in his boxers. Plaid.

Jim ran his fingers through Sandburg's short, damp curls and his smiled curled to match. "Do you have any idea how sexy you look? And how young?"

"Getting off on that, are we?" Blair said with a knowing smile.

"Oh, yeah. Big time."

Blair held his arms out to his side. "Go to town, buddy. For a while anyway, you can pretend you have your very own twink."

"All right, where the hell did you ever hear that word?"

Blair leaned in and pulled Jim down closer to his level. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Jim's eyes narrowed, but before he could send back an answer, Blair kissed him. Deeply. Thoroughly. Completely.

Hot damn.

When Blair finally let go, Jim said breathlessly, "Don't change that either."

Smiling, Blair took Jim's hand and led him out of his room and up the stairs. "You know something, Jim? I just realized -- I got you for my birthday. Pretty cool, eh?"

"Don't change that either, Sandburg."

*****

-30-

No redeemable value whatsoever. So there.

 

 

  
**Disclaimer:** All characters from **The Sentinel** are the property of Pet Fly Productions, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. Characters from any other television show, movie or book are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. We believe the works contained in this archive to be transformative in nature and therefore protected under the 'fair use' provisions of copyright law.

This story archived at <http://asr3.slashzone.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=1213>


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